


Just Another Day In March

by Cheryl_MT



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-18
Updated: 2004-05-18
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheryl_MT/pseuds/Cheryl_MT
Summary: Brian reflects on St. Patrickâ€™s Day.





	Just Another Day In March

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Brian’s POV

I’m seeing bits green as I walk down Liberty Avenue. Then, when I enter the diner, my eyes are assaulted with more green in the shape of shamrocks.

Fuck.

It’s March again and Debbie is decorating the diner as she does for all holidays, sanctioned or not. Red stuff for Valentine’s Day, pastels with bunnies and chicks for Easter, red, white and blue for Memorial day and July 4, not to mention Labor Day. I don’t remember what the fuck she puts up for Columbus Day. Then it’s red, white and blue again for Veterans Day. Autumn leaves and pilgrims and turkeys for Thanksgiving.

Don’t even get me started on Christmas.

Oh yeah, mustn’t forget Pride. All those rainbow striped flags and such. I shudder at the thought.

But it’s March. I fucking hate March. Especially the 17th. You got it. Saint Patrick’s Day. Patron saint of the Irish and the Emerald Isle.

I wish I was another nationality that didn’t celebrate like this.

But unfortunately I am.

Did I mention that I hate March 17? To me, St. Patrick’s Day is just another day in March.

My holier-than-thou mother would spend the day in church. Her family should have stayed in the old country where that particular day is a day of holy obligation for the Catholic Church. Oh, no. They had to come across the pond and become Americans and possibly torture future generations.

Mom would put on a pot of corned beef and cabbage to cook early in the morning. God, I would come downstairs for breakfast and nearly hurl whatever was left in my stomach from the night before, not that it was something memorable. Anyway, Mom’s cooking left much to be desired. I’d rather have a peanut butter sandwich sometimes. Back to the pot on the stove. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house and breathe some fresh air.

Pop would stager to work in the morning after an evening at the local tavern. He’d pass out on the sofa when he got home and, hopefully, he would forget about giving me my daily dose of reality.

But remember, this is St. Patrick’s Day.

What is it that’s said: “Everybody is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.” Yeah Right.

This is the day that dear old dad would drink his green beer and stager home singing some old Irish song and proceed to beat the living shit out of his “Sonny Boy.”

Every year was the same routine. Not that I didn’t get the shit beaten out of me throughout the year. You know the kind of events that would cause him to go off. Lost another job because he was caught drinking on the job. His bowling team lost a big tournament. Pay day. Brian made the Honor Roll at school or made the winning goal in the soccer game.

Did I mention that I hate St. Patrick’s Day?

After these times where I felt like a human punching bag, I’d escape to Mikey’s. Deb would set about feeding me and then patch me up as best she could. She never asked any questions. She knew it was my father and that mom probably stood there and watched while she sipped on a glass of sherry.

I longed for the day when I would be able to stand up to Pop. That day finally came when I was taller than him, probably my junior year in high school. I was running track and playing soccer. I quickly developed speed and agility to duck those punches.

I managed to evade his drunken punches and head for the door. I’d run to my home away from home, my best friend’s house. Sometimes I would huddle up on the front porch until I settled down. Other times I would just open the door and tumble in. Deb would just know what had happened. No questions. I guess it’s a mother’s intuition. I guess my mother was out at mass when they gave the intuition out.

Debbie, although very Italian, would make corned beef and cabbage with boiled potatoes that would melt in your mouth, not to mention didn’t stink up the house.

My mother is not a cook by a long shot. Claire and I would do better with a can of soup or a peanut butter sandwich or maybe a box of mac and cheese every now and then. Mom probably put most of the food budget in the collection plate. Pop spent his money and time at the local tavern or the union hall. He didn’t seem to care that there was nothing in the house to eat.

Did I mention that I hate St. Patrick’s Day?

When I finally left home for college, St. Patrick’s Day was a reason to get drunk or wasted on some other kind drug or another. Parties would start the weekend before the 17th and go until the weekend after the 17th.

Why do they put green dye in the beer? I’d like to know.

Well time has passed and I’m an adult. Yeah, sure. I have my Sunshine and it’s St. Patrick’s Day.

Debbie prepared the annual St. Paddy’s Day feast of corned beef and cabbage with boiled potatoes, along with Vic’s crème de menthe cheesecake for desert. As usual, the whole family is commanded to be there or balls will be removed without benefit of anesthesia and hung out to dry.

We sit around the kitchen table singing old Irish songs and enjoying each other’s company. Debbie cooks enough for Cox’s Army. We all take a doggy-bag home. Of course, mine is a Justin-bag.

I look over and see my Sunshine smiling back at me and I hug him close. Maybe he’s my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

This has been a good St. Patrick’s Day and not just another day in March.


End file.
